The screaming started at 2 AM.
I was halfway across the trailer before my brain caught up with my body, stake in hand, blood singing through my veins. Vicki's door slammed open under my shoulder, and I found her thrashing in her sheets, nails clawing at her throat.
"Vicki! Vicki, wake up!"
Her eyes snapped open—wild, unfocused, somewhere between sleep and terror. The wound on her neck was healed, had been healed for days, but her fingers still scratched at the skin like they were trying to dig something out.
"He's there," she whispered. "In the fog. Smiling. He won't stop smiling."
I pulled her hands away from her throat. Fresh scratches marked the nearly-invisible scar tissue, thin lines of blood welling up. She'd torn herself open trying to escape a dream.
"It's okay. You're safe. It was just a nightmare."
"It wasn't." Her voice was hollow. "It's never just a nightmare. He's real, Matty. The man with the red eyes. He's waiting for me somewhere."
Damon.
The compulsion ran deeper than I'd feared. My blood had healed her body, the vervain protected her from new compulsions, but the hooks Damon had set before the bonfire were still embedded in her mind. She was caught between his commands and reality, unable to fully remember or fully forget.
"Stay here tonight." I kept my voice calm, even as my heart raced. "I'll make you something to eat. We can watch TV until you fall asleep."
She shook her head, agitated. "I can't. I feel... pulled. Like there's somewhere I'm supposed to be."
"Where?"
"I don't know." Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. "I don't know and it's driving me crazy."
I stayed with her until she fell into an exhausted sleep, then retreated to my room to think.
Damon is still controlling her. The compulsion preceded the vervain. I can heal wounds, not minds.
The next morning, Vicki seemed better—calmer, more present. She ate the eggs I made without complaint and even smiled when I burned the toast on my first attempt.
"You're getting worse at this," she said.
"The toaster hates me."
But I caught her staring out the window at nothing, fingers unconsciously moving toward her throat. The pull was still there, lurking beneath the surface.
I waited until she went to shower, then found her phone on the kitchen table.
The texts were from an unknown number. Three messages, sent at midnight.
Come to the cemetery tonight.
I can make the dreams stop.
You belong to me now.
My blood went cold. Damon wasn't just controlling her from the original compulsion—he was actively maintaining his hold, sending reinforcement through messages she probably didn't even consciously remember reading.
The shower shut off. I put the phone back exactly where I'd found it.
That evening, I tried everything I could think of.
"Let's go to the Grill tonight. My treat."
Vicki shook her head. "I'm tired. Think I'll stay in."
"Caroline wants to meet for coffee. You could come with."
"Not tonight."
"There's a movie playing at the—"
"Matty." She stopped me with a hand on my arm. "I just want to stay home, okay? Stop pushing."
But she wasn't staying home. I could see it in the way her eyes kept drifting toward the window, checking the darkening sky. She was waiting for something—for the time she was supposed to leave.
At 9 PM, I tried one last time.
"Vicki, please. Just stay home tonight. I have a bad feeling."
"About what?"
About the vampire who's summoning you to the cemetery. About the monster who tore out your throat and is now playing with you like a cat with a mouse.
"I don't know. Just... please."
Her expression flickered—something beneath the compulsion trying to break through. "I can't," she whispered. "I have to go. He's waiting."
"Who's waiting?"
"I don't—" She pressed her hands to her temples. "I don't know. I can't remember his face. But he needs me. He said I belong to him now."
I grabbed her shoulders. "Vicki, listen to me. You don't belong to anyone. Whatever voice is in your head, it's lying to you."
"It's not a lie." Her eyes were wet. "It's the only thing that feels real."
She pulled away and retreated to her room. I heard the lock click.
At midnight, her window opened.
I was already in my truck down the street, engine off, watching. Vicki dropped from her window—not gracefully, the compulsion didn't give her vampire abilities—and started walking toward the edge of town. Toward the cemetery.
I followed at a distance, stake in my jacket, blood bag pressed against my ribs. Three months of preparation had led to this moment: facing Damon Salvatore with nothing but blood powers and desperation.
The cemetery gates loomed ahead, rusted and unlocked.
Vicki slipped through without hesitation, drawn by invisible strings toward a predator who was waiting in the darkness.
I parked, grabbed my supplies, and followed her into the graveyard.
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